Bloodstorm
by AResidentGhost
Summary: In a world of warring states, one nation will rise above all to conquer and spread their borders. A lost child, a prince, will be found, and will rule with an iron fist. The wars between the Darke and humanity have but barely begun. Warning: Dark!Erik
1. Chapter 1

The blood ran like a ruby stream down the middle of the cobblestone street. It seemed that the battles for the city had been particularly violent that day. Alone and frightened, a little boy who appeared to be starving looked out upon the grisly lane with eyes shrouded in darkness. Eyes that could only be seen in the dark, and in the darkness of the store, the yellow-hued eyes peered out to the road from beneath a plain, black silk cloth mask through the grimy windowpane belonging to the closed tailor shop. The boy, whose name was simply and enigmatically "Erik", had been abandoned by his mother long ago on the doorsteps of the owners of the simple shop. They didn't question his strange appearance or listen to their misgivings as they were never granted the gift if a child of their own.

They had taught him as best they could on how to survive, knowing that the long, ongoing war would someday reach their city, but it almost made no difference, all because no mater what they hoped, the war reached the city when he was still very young. When news of the conquering hordes of the enemy reached the large, fortified city, many evacuated the city for the country. Those people were mostly compromised of women, children, the elderly, and the very nobility that ran the city. Some of the nobles elected to stay, but there were, as there always is, more than a few cowards, from all classes, not just the aristocracy, while most men stayed with the city's defenses out of their own personal sense of duty to their beloved city and land. Little Erik did not want to go; he was afraid of the new settings and the possible ridicule he could have faced for his very face. So, when his adoptive mother left, he hid, and when the man he called father left for the battlefront and never came back, he took to scrounging the off-limits cupboards. It had only been three days, and every day there were battles—battles that were never won.

A warrior of the enemy came riding down the brick and stone alley, hooves clopping against the cobblestones, occasionally splashing through a random puddle or the gleaming crimson stream. Razor sharp, night-trained eyes spotted a gleam in the grimy windows. He reigned in his steed, bringing the canter to a sudden halt.

"What is that?" Whispered the young soldier from the region called Dar, an enemy of the city. "Who or what could have eyes like the Darke, of whom I serve with utmost loyalty? I have not heard of any Darke residing around these parts before or recently. Perhaps it is the missing high prince for whom we have been fighting and searching for, in whose name and for whose sake one of the main reasons this war was started in the first place? Could it truly be him?"

Dismounting from his dappled gray warhorse, he lands with just a slight _tap_ on the stones, the sound made by his heeled, black leather boots that are polished to a mirror finish and unsullied by mud or grime. His steps broke the eerie silence of the alley, making the ubiquitous rats scurry to their burrows once again. The gray horse let out a soft neigh and nodded his head slightly. The aging gelding, that despite its many years of service was still full of strength and vitality, has seen many strange things since he was chosen for service to the ruling Darke and the military. Many of those years had been spent in search of the missing prince, the firstborn of the royal family—who themselves are of the _aristocracy_, a branch of the Darke that tend to be born ugly and grow beautiful as they mature more often than the _common_ Darke. That is, they _usually_ do, for every now and then, but very uncommonly, there is one that never outgrows that stage of ugliness that most Darke go through.

Inside the shop, the little Darke, for that was what he really was—not a human as he was always thought to be, let out a small gasp as he observed the strangely dressed, armored, and decorated man swung off the mighty horse and started towards the door to the dusty store. Scared, he started backing away from the window towards the back room with its multitude of wonderful hiding spaces. He hurried even faster as the footfalls neared, and finally broke into a full run when the door handle started to twitch. _My god,_ the Darke child named Erik thought to himself nervously as tears started to form in his hidden eyes. _Did I remember to lock the door the last time I went out?_

Meanwhile, the trained horseman had reached the oak door. _Let's see if the portal is locked,_ the dark figure mused. He reached towards the simple brass instrument and grabbed the handle. Surprisingly, he found it unlocked and unbarred. Stepping inside, he surveyed the interior front room, the place that was, before the war had driven most people away, had been the actual showroom and where money was exchanged for the services and goods provided. There was very little of anything that could possibly interest the foreign fighter. On the available counters were piles of cloth of all colors and patterns, and hanging on racks were cloaks, dresses, suits, and other clothing, all covered with a thin layer of graying dust. Not much dust, true, but just enough to have dulled the bright cloth and fashions.

Little Erik was absolutely terrified. He remembered nothing of his _birth_ mother, and only a faint image of the woman who abandoned him on those doorsteps where he was found by the older couple. He didn't even know of his origins, his country of origin, his species—for he did not _look_ human, his lineage, of his surname. All he knew was that, somehow, he aged much more slowly that other children around him. This was the secret to the Darke and their power. They had more time before maturity to learn of the nature of the world and other such knowledge that humanity cannot concern itself to learn with their short life spans and learning spans. Once grown, they are invulnerable to disease or serious injury. They are then, for the most part, immortal. The boot steps echo hollowly against the wooden floorboards and the empty walls. And, against all odds, the dark warrior found the quaking and crying child.

"What's beneath the mask?" He asked in his sweetest voice.

The child's eyes swept back and forth in search of an escape route and found none. Finally, in a tiny, unsure voice, he pleaded, "Nothing but my face, sir. Please don't kill me!"

"How old are you, might I ask," the dark robed man inquired.

"I… I am not sure, sir," Erik replied hesitantly. "Around twelve to fourteen. I know I look only like and eight year old or even younger. I've always been smaller and _looked_ younger than that of my peers, though the doctors all used to say—before they left—that I am not done growing…"

"Ah, it is true! A real Darke!" Exclaimed the menacing figure.

"Aren't they the enemy?" Little Erik asked with the innocence of a sequestered child.

"They are your sires, my child," he reminds the young Darke. "Lift your shirt up, little one."

"Why?"

"I want to make sure of something."

Obediently, little Erik did so, and there, before his very eyes, was the symbol, invisible to most mortal eyes and then only to those few mortals gifted with the talent to see _faxi_, or the magical alphabet of the Darke. Not a tattoo, per se, but a kind of identification mark, mainly used by the nobility in case of situations such as what had happened over fifteen years ago. The warrior, realizing that this was _indeed_ the high prince, fell to his knees and reverently bowed his head.

"My liege," he declared. Erik was thoroughly puzzled. "Would you come home to your true home with me?"

Erik simply nodded.


	2. Chapter 2: Reunion

Footsteps echoed down the stone hallway, two sets of footsteps, actually. One was much quieter than the other, the louder steps were those made by the _clack_ of leather boots with thick heels, and the quieter, almost inaudible but for the fact that other than the loud footsteps the hallway was quiet, were the child's feet, clad in soft leather all-purpose boots that were more like glorified shoes. The child's eyes behind his mask were wide with wonder at the impressive stone architecture of the hallways. He had never seen anything like it in his life—at least that he could remember, anyways. His auburn hair was wild, long, seemingly unkempt, and wind-blown from the wild ride back to the capitol city—a ride that was non-stop and long—of Dar, the country who had been at war with the neighboring country for around a decade and a half.

The young Darke, whose face was still masked—he refused to part with it _and_ take the cloth off for fear of ostracizing, though he would not be able to tell you that feeling in such terms, much less know the meaning of said word 'ostracizing', however he _did_ know what he felt—looked up to the soldier and asked, "What is your name, sir?"

"My name?" He answered with a slight chuckle. "Of course I can tell you my name, my lord. I am called Mikel. Mikel Angrove, at your service. And yours, little one?"

Beneath the mask the Darke blushed. "I've always been told that it is 'Erik'; that the name was declared in a note left with me when I was abandoned at that shop. However, they told me that they changed the spelling to approximately that which they could pronounce. Well…that is at least what I have always been told, so I do not know the truth of my name…"

"Sounds about right, although it would more likely be 'Aerikk', in your rightful tongue, not the low and barbaric language of which you were raised with and know of no other. Now hush, little prince, we are approaching His Majesty's audience chamber—the public throne room."

Inside the chamber, seated on a throne of silver inlaid with ebony, onyx, obsidian, garnet, spinel, and other dark precious stones and jewels that gleamed in the low, golden light, was the emperor. The emperor was, of course, of the Darke species, but he _was_ getting _old_ for a Darke. Though seemingly immortal to humanity, they have a normal lifespan of about anywhere from eight centuries to over a millennia, but if placed in a situation where there is not enough rest or food for them, the elder Darke, say of about six centuries or so, will start to age _rapidly_ and _die_ before their natural lifespan comes to a close. And that is not always the case, occasionally one or two will truly be _immortal_ and will not age and will only die from said circumstances, suicide, murder, or outside forces. For some strange reason, this tends to happen more often with those who never complete the transition between their ugliness and strange, sensual beauty. The emperor was not one of those few, and he showed his age. His hair was silver; his eyes were a cold, sharp sapphire; and he had a weary look upon his weathered face. In front of this imposing figure was a slighter figure dressed in fine, but subdued clothes, kneeling in submission to the seated royal.

"Your eternal highness," the grim, muddy figure pleaded. "We have been looking and looking for your child for _years_. And although we have not found him, we _have_ found the perpetrator of the heinous crime. She was a spy, sent from Gaulia to stir up secrets of your power, my liege. She was a _chalka_, sir. A demonic _shape shifter spirit_, in the common tongue. A damn good one, too. How else could she have wormed her way close enough to steal your child and murder your wife?"

The ruler growled and contemplated the words of what his current audience had just said. With a shout, a cry of anger and annoyance, the old Darke cut off the messenger just as he was about to speak once again.

"_Damn!_ Jarak! Have you heard any news from the battlefronts?"

"Yes, your highness. We are doing very well, my lord. We are gaining control of their country and capital every day. We have almost conquered Paria, their capital city."

A small page, who looked no more than a child, but was an adult in terms of human years, ran up to the elder Darke and whispered in his ear. He nodded his approval, turned to his audience of one, and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

"Jarak, that is all. You are dismissed. Send in Commander Mikel Angrove."

The massive doors opened and in strode the dark-robed, tall, and weary commander with the child he had found. When he was at the center of the room—which was the center of the floor mosaic, a circle that was incorporated into the design of the floor for that very purpose as a visual clue to the guidelines of court etiquette—he knelt in respect and subservience to the emperor. The child, who had never been in the presence of any royalty or aristocracy, upon seeing the older man whom he had traveled with and come to trust kneel, also knelt upon the floor, mimicking the person whom he had come to trust out of necessity over the long journey.

The wise ruler looked upon the two with astonishment. He was particularly interested in the child, who to all accounts and from what he could see, looked amazingly like he did as a child—although he could not see beyond the child's black mask. _Could this boy truly be my lost child?_ He thought to himself. _Certainly must be, for why else would a loyal soldier depart from the battlefront to return to my palace with a child in tow? And not just any old child—a child of the Darke who would appear to be the correct age, according to the life cycle of my species… I must determine this now or I will never know for sure and doubt will forever linger in my mind._ With a subtle hand gesture, he bid them to rise and listen as he spoke.

"Rise, my loyal subjects, and speak freely so that I may know the purpose as to your visit and settle my questions and doubts." His voice was rich, beautiful, and commanding. It was a voice that, if turned to singing, would be at once both instantly recognizable and enduring.

"I believe, sir, that I have found your child who has been missing all these many years. I found him as I was scouting the alleyways and streets to plan our next advances and battles in the city. I was riding when I saw a glint of yellow, like cat's eyes, _inside_ a grimy store window. Curious, I halted my horse and dismounted."

"And why did you do that, commander?" The emperor's voice rumbled. His eyes narrowed, but not in anger or suspicion, but in contemplation and interest, as if he was intensely analyzing the soldier's story to see whether it was true or false.

"I knew that only the Darke tend to have eyes that show in the dark like that, and as the side of the alley that the shop was situated in was encased in shadow, I knew the only explanation would be a stray Darke. And as I am under oath to serve and protect any and all Darke, it was my duty to try and help whomever it was."

"You are wise for a _schagda_." The soldier was what the Darke termed _schagda_, a human enhanced by three things, called '"the gifts": _taijd_, or enhanced with Darke technology; _miaj_, or the Darke's magic; and finally, _baij_, or the infusion of Darke blood, given when inducted into the role they will play after much training. Though elevated in their human societies, they are generally looked down upon for the most part by the Darke, and for good reason: many humans, upon receiving an infusion of Darke blood go mad. The chance of madness and the severity increases with the level or amount, in other words, of blood infused.

"After I had entered the shop, and finding no one and no animal in sight in that room, I started to search. This search led me to the back room—which is where I found the child. He fit the role of a Darke child perfectly. The _faxi_ script upon his back clinched my suspicions. He is the missing heir."

"Child, what is your name?"

The young Darke, who had been fidgeting nervously, suddenly looked up and stood at attention. "Erik," he said simply and boldly.

"A corruption of you real name. Aerikk, I believe. The Gaulians cannot pronounce the Dar equivalent of their name 'Eric'. Lift your shirt, Aerikk."

As he did, he could see plainly the script Mikel had mentioned and was immediately convinced of the truth.

"Commander Mikel Angrove, congratulations for returning my son to me. You shall be duly rewarded."


	3. Chapter 3

The royal palace was in an uproar. How could the royal child have been hidden for so many years in such an obvious place? Yet, where he was hid was not all that obvious, for who would think to look in a lowly tailor's shop? All the citizens wondered about that, but, after all, he was not hidden in all that much of a place in public view, really. The shop _was_ in a back alley, in a side street, not out on the bright but dusty thoroughfares. Hidden for most of his life _inside_ the living quarters atop the tailor's shop, never venturing outside and into the public's eye. Everyone was interested in the Darke child who was found near the battlefront in Paria, the neighboring country's capital. They didn't know how much damage might possibly have been done to the poor child out of the ignorance of the human Gaulians and their ignorance-borne neglect.

Meanwhile, back on the battlefronts spread across the nation of Gaulia, the clang of steel clashing with metal rang throughout the air. Shouts of commands to lower soldiers and screams borne of searing pain added to the cacophony. It was a noisy place, and nowhere one would have wanted to be if one could help it. Blood ran freely and stained both street and soil crimson across the foreign country.

And in the capital of Paria, the battles which had been raging for four days by then, had reached the outer walls of the governing _paiya_, or central stronghold in the common Dar tongue—the Jedar. The castle was massive but beautiful, being made of fine granite of different colors in a pattern foreign to the besieging army.

"Sir, how are we going to take this castle? It is well guarded and protected! It would take weeks! Is there something I do not know and _should_ know?" The Grand Field General's war-servant, Gromm the Small-Nosed asked.

"Ah, yes, my loyal servant, we have a secret weapon. They shall be arriving soon…"

A messenger ran up to the general seated upon his horse and announced himself. Diverting his attention to the soldier, he bade the soldier to speak while he gestured for his servant to cease speaking. After receiving the quiet, yet important message, he sent the human soldier to relay his response as a message and rally his troops. A _harra_ by nature, he gained his position through his bloodlines—part human, part Darke. He was often rumored to be quite mad, and often _did_ lose his sanity in the heat of battle. This made him quite a formidable warrior and soldier, as when maddened, he did not stop until there was nothing left to destroy.

Eight Great Magi rode through the streets towards the castle from each side street leading to the river, and therefore to the main bridge and gate, converging at the plaza overlooking the fortress and riding to the front. Seated on _klanth_ beasts, which are native and unique to Dar and are similar to mammalian horses except that they have natural, boney plate armor, the magicians are completely enrobed within black cloth elaborately decorated with strange, arcane patterns and designs created in silver and gold thread. Not an inch could be seen of their bodies except the faint golden glow of their fey eyes. They are and never were human, and have no trace of outside blood within their veins. Their bloodlines were pure—there were never any interspecies matings in their pasts. They were and are purely Darke. Many of the Great Magi never grow out of the common childhood ailment of the Darke: ugliness. A low murmur could be heard, and this murmur came from the troops gathered at the gates. The Great Magi were a force unto themselves, highly respected and widely _feared_.

Softly at first, they started to chant in the ancient, magical tongue that was rarely ever spoken, but when written was known as the _faxi_ script. The air was starting to be filled with arcane power. It jangled the human soldiers' nerves, and felt like the static electricity one feels before a lightning strike. The hair on the back of their necks was standing on end. A storm was coming, and none of it was natural. The louder the chanted, the stronger the sense of magic in the air became. They were creating a massive, non-lethal defensive spell—shield for the troops, while at the same time making it easier for their army to get inside the fortress. The air crackled with invisible and immense energy as the spell weaving came to a close.

"Give the order now," said the oldest of the Great Magi, the assumed leader of the group at this gathering. "Go now, while our spell is at its strongest."

The Grand Field General gave the long-awaited command, and with a great clamor, the troops poured across the stone bridge that connected the palace to the city's banks themselves. They crossed the river Sei, its clear waters sparkling as it continued its frantic race downstream to the Caral Ocean. The fortress itself was on an island in the middle of the river.

The gates opened easily, as was predicted by the magicians, to the massed forces of this branch of the army of Dar. As the warriors made their way inside, the archers and riflemen of the Royal Gaulia Guard fired their respective weapons towards and against the army that was attacking to no avail. However, their shots just bounced off and away from their targets in the middle of the air. Those that _did_ make it through the magical barriers seemed to be charmed, because of the way they always managed to miss the invading soldiers for some odd reason or another. What made it even more odd was that they missed despite the fact that most of the time they were crowded together, with very little elbowroom or space between them.


	4. Chapter 4

The soldiers of Dar stormed into Gaulia's citadel. They swept through the barracks, taking guards and soldiers alike as prisoners to be brought back home to Dar for the Darke to use as they see fit. Others rampaged through the keep until they found where the royal court was hiding—or what was left of it, for most had left previously. However, their king, who stayed out of respect to his people, did not leave and that is who the leader of the Darke was after, through his emissary on the battlefield, an older, highly accomplished Darke named Jezac N'híl.

"You are their king, are you not, _chaichan_ (degenerate)?" N'híl asked. The frightened human (or at least as close to human as an alien race that once was human can get) nods his head vigorously. The Darke grins, baring his sharp, predatory teeth. A low laugh escapes him.

"_Chaichan_, by order of my lord, Emperor Ilik II, you are to come back with us and stand _garuk_, or 'imperial trial'. After which the Emperor shall make his decision concerning your worthless little life, _chaichan_. You better hope you have a successor, because I doubt you'll return alive and kicking. But don't worry, we'll make sure there is enough of you left to ship home. Maybe…" He sneers, and a coldness unfathomable to the Gaulian King practically radiates from his steel-gray eyes.

Speaking to the soldier's in their native tongue, he barks their orders:

"Soldiers, take this degenerate 'king' back to camp—and don't let him escape. If you do, it will be your death for both of you." And with that ominous warning he turns and strides out. The soldiers bind the prisoner with rope made from the fibers of the _ketchia_ tree, native to Dar and with the tensile strength of the strongest forged steel. In other words, if he would try to cut his way out or break free, it would only end in failure, especially as it takes a lot of skill and strength to cut the rope, and the captured ruler has no knowledge of those skills.

Back at the camp, the emperor's emissary to his troops ruled over the commotion stirring within the restless armies. Once he had their attention, he ordered that they must still hold the city, even while he had temporarily passed on his responsibilities, though with limitations, to his second-in-command, a brilliant but young noble Darke who was, for his age, unequalled in battle.

In the grand hall of the _Graka Ní Hao _Castle, little Aerikk is listening intently to his newly discovered father and occasionally answering his questions as the elder asks them. Both are very patient, which helps quite a bit, as the younger Darke was not raised in the same tongue. The years that Ilik III has lived and ruled has mellowed the wildness of his youth and forced upon him gentle patience. Unlike his father, Aerikk, still young and full of vigor, has had to forcibly learn the human virtue in order to survive in the tumultuous life of his previous childhood.

"Young Aerikk, have you _eaten_ lately?" Ilik asks his heir.

"Of course I've ate food lately," he speaks. "I found food in the city and the cooks here have been very kind and very good…"

'Of course you ate, but have you _eaten_?" He stresses the word "eaten".

"Huh?"

"Have you been _fed_ properly? When was the last time you were given meat?" The little Darke just shrugs, he obviously doesn't know the answer to the seated figure's question or how to properly address him or respond. "How about fresh, raw, bloody meat?" Aerikk shakes his head. "Never? No wonder you're so far behind! You haven't been _fed_ properly in your life! This must be fixed! Follow Yangoi to the dining hall. He will help you."

Inside the lunchtime dining hall, little Aerikk sits on a bench at one of the long wooden tables. The odd-looking "Yangoi" has disappeared into the kitchens and the boy could hear his demands to the staff, although he cannot understand the words. Soon, he comes out with what seems to be a steaming drink and plate. He sets them in front of the boy.

"Chechin na mak," Yangoi commands in words totally foreign to Aerikk's ears, for they weren't even in the language of the Darke, but of _Hieowin_, the language of the native Hidowei, whose numbers have vastly decreased with the arrival of the human-like creatures—who, in all probability could be humans or an old offshoot of humanity, such as Atlantean cultures, before the technology was lost to travel the stars. The Hidowei allied themselves with the Darke, gaining their respect and were given refuge as the human population grew and claimed more land.

"_Chechin na mak_," he repeats.

"I know not what you say," Aerikk responds.

"Oh… 'Eat it while it's fresh'," he reluctantly answers in the low tongue.

The drinking vessel was filled with red liquid that smelled very appetizing to the young Darke. Picking it up hesitantly, he brings it to his lips and downs it quickly, relishing the warmth and sweet taste. Hungry now, he rips into the plate set before him and finishes in record time. Strangely, he is satisfied in a way that he never was before.

"Off to bed," Yangoi commands in his heavily accented voice. "You need your rest."

Several weeks later, the almost funereal procession reaches the heart of Dar. As the war party and its highly valuable prisoners wind their way through the streets, the citizens of Dar, slave and master, servant and laborer, poor and rich come out of their buildings to get a glimpse of whom they captured. They are lead by Jezac N'híl, a highly revered and respected warrior Darke, who has led His Majesty's troops in many successful battles. The whole horse-bound and –drawn train was adorned in dark purple and a vibrant, chaotic red, which signify victory and prisoners of war are being held within in the mythology and culture of the Darke.

Many who come out to see the activity end up following the "black" parade all the way to the palace of the Darke Emperor. When they reach the front courtyard, they are amazed to see their ruler standing at the top of the steps. At once, all that followed drop down on to their bended knees in reverence. The sun is starting to truly set now, and pageboys are scurrying about to light the braziers in the courtyard. As darkness settles over the yard one of the unique features of a full and true Darke appears: their luminous, cat-like eyes. These same eyes narrow as they survey the scene before him.

With a curt gesture and a brisk, harsh, and commanding tone, he barks an order: "_Ctaka._ (Stand.) State your business that is so urgent that it keeps me from my _szeel_ (son)."

Jezac N'híl answers, "We have captured their citadel. Along with that we have taken prisoner their king and some of their heads of state. We also cleverly sent out a message that we failed and therefore it is safe to return."

Emperor Ilik smiles, and his teeth glint in the firelight. "Go on," he commands with an encouraging gesture. "Tell me more."

"I have set it up so that when they do return, they are also taken prisoner. When all are captured, they will be brought here before you to also face trial, as those already imprisoned and captured are here to do so."

"I see. You have my permission to harass the prisoners and use any means to extract information. But remember—I want them alive in order to question them at their trials. Another reason is that, if found guilty of crimes against my people, I would love to have the unique pleasure of observing their deaths. Bring them to the dungeons and lock them in securely. I do not know for sure whether these humans from Gualia know _childra_, the magic of our land, but I'd make sure there is no possibility of their escape. Goodnight."

With that, the emperor turns and almost _glides_ inside, his servants shutting the large, thick, and heavy wooden doors with a large thud.


End file.
